Medics were also busy back at the hangar of the Vione.
Repairing the damage of one very pissed off pyromaniac. Because there was signs of boy stopping before there was an ample amount of blood or bodies on the floor, word requesting medical aid and intervention was sent immediately to the Strategos.
Folken had received word that the Dragonslayers had returned from their mission and were in hangar 3, and the request for medics in the same breath had been enough of a tip off. Yet he took his time getting there from the observatory, walking as slowly and deliberately as he knew how. 'Dilandau, what have you done now?'
Long association with Dilandau had taught the Strategos that the best way to deal with someone so short tempered and impatient was to move as slowly as possible. Should the Strategos get there before the boy was through whatever tantrum he was experiencing, he would be forced to incarcerate the child through…less than desirable or passive methods, making a scene and pulling rank. There was no reason to have his authority challenged in public, as the commander was inclined to do. He would deal with Dilandau thoroughly enough in the seclusion of his own office.
Besides, if Dilandau was truly angry enough to attack defenseless employees, then there had to something to it. Folken would never go as far as to say that the boy had honor, or any type of code for combat, but he did take pride in what he did, and enjoyed the challenge. Folken had trouble picturing the albino beating up mechanics without reason. Hopefully, the Dragonslayers would be able to hold off their commander before too much damage was dealt. Folken had enough trouble receiving men as it was; he did not require the aid of a hyperactive fool impeding his efforts.
Also, he disliked being to "hurry up". He was commander of the Zaibach Army. He was not going to hurry up.
He heard the chaos before he saw it. Distinct sounds of pleas, yells, the thwapping sound of leather hitting skin, and a single dominate voice, ranting and overpowering the other noises. And he wasn't even halfway down the hall. The immense hangar doors had been shut hastily by hand, a crack of light illuminating the dark corridor. Sighing, Folken tapped a command into the control panel that operated the doors. One of doors hissed open, and Folken resignedly stepped through.
'Four men down and bleeding, 6, no 7 others down but not seriously damaged, 4 of them Dragonslayers. Three medics present total. I sent 5. There's Dilandau as happy as can be, and that must be chief officer kneeling in front of him, judging from the number of bruises. Where's the blond Slayer; he usually stops Dilandau before it escalates this far. At least one of the others had the sense to take his sword. Noticeable lack of mechanics, most of them must have escaped; explains the door. Noticeable lack of guymelefs. Time to intervene.'
His presence was taken note of quickly, not because of sight; his robes blended well with the shadows of the rest of the Vione, and his footsteps were silent. Folken made his presence felt more than seen heard, and the atmosphere subtly but quickly changed from that of high tension to nervous relief. Dilandau felt it certainly; though he refused to acknowledge the Strategos, he stood straighter, and quit cursing "the damn management".
Migel was emphatically hoping that Dilandau was going to be satisfied with chastising the service men without feeling the need to come after him too. Getting his sword had been no easy task, and only a great deal of persuasion circa the worthiness of the prey had kept him unskewered. Where the heck was the Strategos, this was going to get out of hand quickly. Pretty soon he was going to lose interest in slaps to nearby Slayers, chiefly Dalet, and service men and was going to start wondering where the hell his sword was. Then, like Gaia herself had heard his pleas, was the Strategos, solemn, powerful, and looking annoyed. "Folken-sama," Left hand open and outstretched, Migel thrust the sword into quickly, before saluting and fading to the corners. Sword now resting demurely under his floor length cape, Folken quietly called Dilandau to attention. The silence that in sued was so overwhelmingly different from the previous raucous, it hurt Dalet's ears.
Dilandau swung around abruptly, stilled pissed as hell, but now silent. He met Folken's tranquil gaze with his own glare for a few seconds before saluting reluctantly. "There's a problem sir. The mission was a failure," here his voice returned to it's previous tone, as did volume, though slower, "We lost men out there. How exactly do you bloody expect us to damn bit of work when we're harboring this type," here he gestured viciously at the service men, "of goddamned trash, leeches, traitors to the Empire in our ranks. How the hell do expect us to retrieve that double damned son of a bitch," Folken's eyes met Dilandau's sharply. Dilandau lowered both volume and tone. "Brat when we-"
"How many men?" Again, the Stratego's voice had the same effect.
"One." Dilandau scowled. "Sir."
"The 3 missing guymelefs."
"Malfunctioned." Dilandau eyed the remaining men as disdainfully as a cat regarding a sparrow.
"Current condition?"
"Destroyed completely."
"Direct your men to the showers, then to their quarters. Send those requiring medical aid to the infirmary."
It was game often played in the Vione; the Dragonslayer commander would irritate the Strategos and provoke him, and the Strategos would treat the commander like stupid insubordinate, incapable of logical thought.
Folken's gaze slid off the metallic giants, in less than shining condition, and onto Dilandau.
"Then report immediately to me. In my office."
Dilandau's chin rose, arrogance sweating in the slightest gesture. "Yes, Folken-sama." He turned abruptly to his men. "Oric, Mercutio, escort them," he pointed at the fallen men, "and-"
"You are to go with them."
Dilandau glanced over his shoulder, not deigning to turn all the way around. Folken met his gaze evenly.
"Next time, be more careful with the machinery."
With that, he flowed out of hangar number three, sword still tucked discreetly under his cape.
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Van studied his feet.
Merle sat curled at his side, glomping gently onto his arm.
Silence prevailed around them, as it had for the last three hours, while they sat on Van's bed. The only sound was that of their breathing, which was also swallowed greedily by the silence. The loudest sound to break the sanctuary had been that of Allen's boots, when he had come in earlier. He had offered his condolences silently, by placing the hand of his newly relocated shoulder on Van's own. It had remained there for several seconds, before commander of the Crusade left the room as unceremoniously as he had entered.
It bothered Allen to see Van like this, after seeing him only a few hours earlier. 'We practically had to pry his fingers off of her with crowbars.' Allen leaned against the wall in the corridor; it had been years since he had seen a man so torn apart. 'He was even talking to her, promising all the places he would take her, vengeance, a new deck of cards, gods he was so sincere.' That in itself wasn't unusual; it happened all the time after someone lost someone dear to them. What bothered Allen most of all was to see Van so composed, listless. 'Probably going to have to lock up Escaflowne. That'll have to wait for morning, it's taken care of well enough for now. I can't believe it's only 6. Seems longer somehow.'
Van waited an hour after Allen's footsteps receded down the hall, and Merle slipped off his arm and onto the bed in slumber. Then he slipped off silently for a date with a pillar. Not surprisingly, the hangar was empty. Allen's guymelef had taken minimum damage, and most of the crew was busy caring for casualties, while had been serious nor staggering, was enough to keep half of the functioning crew of the Crusade caring for them while the other half repaired the ship and gathered supplies.
Van had some problems entering the cockpit of the Fanelian relic, but it was nothing that a lot of squirming and a little determination couldn't take care of. Tossing the pillar off of the giant was an cinch, though it did attract attention. Once he stepped outside he thought he heard Allen's voice yelling at him, but he couldn't be sure, and he really didn't care anyway. Scherezade was in no condition to move, much less follow an airborne target.
Jumping into the air and transforming into the flying dragon that was also Escaflowne, Van headed straight up, becoming loss among the evening clouds and night. Then he went off on top speed the opposite direction that the Dragonslayers had retreated in.
'This isn't over, Dilandau.'
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Dilandau Albatou fell back on his bed with a sigh. He exhaled deeply again, and allowed his body to finally relax for the first time that day. It felt, good, to just let the adrenaline drain from the back of his neck and down to abdomen, and feel the gravity pull his limp muscles down. Absentmindedly, he made a note to take a shower soon; he stank, and his leather uniform only seemed to breed the smell. Still absentmindedly, he noted that there was an object poking him in the back, and it was cold. He didn't move. He let his eyes roam over to the clock. 'It's only nine. Good grief, is it really only nine?' Closer inspection revealed that it was indeed, only nine. 'No, can't be that early. Damn clocks are broken, just like everything else around here.' He stared contemplatively at the ceiling. 'Be a hell of a laugh if the levitation rocks "ceased functioning" for no damn good reason. Then we could all plummet to the ground to a battle-less death, and then I wanna hear him arguing about the efficiency of his "science".'
Memories not yet half an hour long came back. Him in the dark and far too shady office of the Strategos, breathing in the stuffy recycled air, even more stuffier due to the Strategos' presence, explaining over an over again how the machines had malfunctioned. "Malfunctioned" seemed to be the Strategos' new favorite word. He had used it in their "conversation" more times than Dilandau cared to count. Yes, the energy levels were at a standard; No, I, nor anyone else in my team had taken serious damage, we aren't the best in Zaibach's army for nothing; Yes, all the "malfunctioned" guymelefs had been completely destroyed, had the Strategos wanted them for a scrap collection instead; Yes, I know how to keep barbarian mitts off our technology; No, the deactivation button had not been hit accidentally, we aren't stupid; How the hell should I know what's wrong with them, they weren't my toys, I didn't build them.'
As a result of his patience, he had two days of solitary confinement in his room, as did the rest of his team. He alone, however, would be banned from guymelef practice for two weeks after that. That hadn't bothered Dilandau too much; they were going to have double his salary before he stepped into one of those spit-and-crap buckets again; he had said as much in the Strategos' office. At least he had gotten his sword back; it was going to take hours to clean all the Fanelian residue off of it. That was going to have to wait for morning though.
The truth, Dilandau believed, was that the Strategos was trying to foist the blame for the substandard guymelefs on him. Folken was renowned in the Empire for being a genius only rivaled by Emperor Dornkirk himself; if word got out that the famed invisibility cloaks that he had invented were unreliable…
'What would the neighbors think?'
Dilandau smiled. He wouldn't mind seeing the Strategos taken down a notch, or even replaced completely. Folken moved too slowly, he was more concerned with politics than the real battle. 'Wonder what he would do if we put him in a guymelef and threw him out of his precious fortress and into battle with his brother. Love to see that family reunion. Van would tear him apart.' Dilandau stopped that train of thought almost violently. The idea of Van brought with it the prior morning, and that mission…had certain aspects that Dilandau didn't want to deal with just yet. He was almost grateful that the Strategos had chosen not to review that matter.
Almost.
He would never allow himself to be totally grateful for anything Folken did. Or anyone else, for that matter.
His bed rocked slightly, no, his entire room shuddered. The clock fell over, the mirror on the wall next to his dresser falling and cracking on the floor. Dilandau sat up abruptly. 'Did they put one of rookies at the helm again. My mirrors coming out of somebody's paycheck, and it isn't mine.' The cabin shook again, this time more violently. 'Or, could we be under attack? But that's impossible, no one knows were we are, and we have the invisibility cloaks on.' Dilandau scratched the last notion. 'Who would dare to attack a flying fortress?' Several possibilities ran through his head, but only one had the gall and stupidity to be a match. 'Van. I thought I'd taken care of you earlier. Oh well, I'm not complaining.' Smiling broadly, Dilandau made his out and to the control room.
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Folken stared out the floor length windows of the control room at the white guymelef on the ground; frowning slightly. 'Van, this is far too reckless, even for you.' 'What could make you to do this?'
Dilandau chose that exact second to swagger in. "Well, look who decided to drop by. Is he coming to his senses and surrendering?"
"What happened?"
Dilandau tried to look innocent, and failed completely.
"How should I know? I wasn't in charge of surveillance?"
One of the men comm. reported an incoming transmission from the guymelef.
Patched through the overhead speakers, Van's voice was full of static, and garbled, but the meaning was clear.
"Escaflowne to Vione. I have come to demand a challenge from the Dragonslayer commander. A solo duel, if the commander has the courage to face me without his men interfering."
Dilandau blinked, the subtext in the transmission not lost on him. Folken turned to him blankly, his crimson eyes silently asking 'What have you done now?'
"How melodramatic." Dilandau smiled brightly at Folken. "He attacked us first. Just blow him up, salvage the pieces, and mail it to the Emperor."
Folken blinked at Dilandau, looking almost surprised. "Then, you step down from his offer?" Folken's voice was soft, inquisitive, slightly disbelieving. The rest of personnel froze in place, every ear straining. Was the greatest soldier in Zaibach really refusing a challenge?
Dilandau snorted disdainfully, well aware that Folken had maneuvered him into a difficult position. Trust brothers to stick together, even if they were on different sides.
"Fine, I'll make the little twip happy. Let's hope at least one of the guymelefs is in decent, functioning condition."
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Van was half expecting to get blown up by the Vione's cannons, waiting in the dark. Suddenly, this didn't seem like the wisest idea he had ever had. But he was never backing out. He would see Dilandau's dead and bloody corpse or he would die trying. Right now he was expecting the latter. The silence continued on, eating away his nerves. Van realized he hadn't had anything to eat all day. Then Folken's voice came crackling over the comm.
"Vione to Escaflowne. Report to the northwest clearing. The commander will be waiting for you there."
Van sighed in relief, and took off.
Folken watched as Van walked to his designated area, his eyes even more melancholy than usual. He silently hoped Dilandau had taken one of the malfunctioning guymelefs. 'Good luck, brother.'
TBC….
Fighting and blood in the next chapter, posted sometime soon.